


Saadya's Pages

by Findswoman



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Art, Artists, Books, Bookstores, Family, Gen, Original Force power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 15:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: A Lothali book-artist from the time before the Jedi Civil War quite literally puts himself into his creations. Meanwhile, Ezra comes across a curious artifact in an antiquarian bookshop. This is a multi-timeframe story; the frame of the story takes place in about 4 BBY (Rebels season 2), and the main action several thousand years before, during the period just before KOTOR. Levi Bridger is borrowed from Raissa_Baiard; all other OCs are my own.





	1. Chapter 1

_Garel, 4 BBY_  
  
Seated on a rickety wicker bench in an antiquarian bookstore on Garel City’s lower north side, Ezra Bridger twiddled his thumbs. During the hour and a half or so that Hera, Kanan, and Chopper had been holed up in the back office with the shopkeeper—their newest “contact” or some such—he, Ezra, had successfully and singlehandedly acquired everything on the day’s supply list, plus some: the power converters, the flux-torque couplings, even an extra two-kilo carton of science dip (on sale at Grug’s, no less). He was sure they’d be all done with their negotiations or intel or recon or whatever it was by the time he got back. But they weren’t, of course. Typical adults.  
  
The Lothali teen glanced around—not that there was much to see in this cramped hole-in-the-wall besides the bookcases upon bookcases upon bookcases, all stuffed to bursting with the board-and-flimsi publications of earlier years, decades, millennia. That was when he heard it...  


* * *

  
_Lothal, 3989 BBY_  
  
Once, many millennia ago, in the outskirts of the Capital City of Lothal, there lived a craftsman who made books.  
  
Yes, in a Galaxy of datapads, commlinks, and vidscreens, he crafted books—beautiful, handmade, exquisitely crafted books of flimsiplast, paper, cloth, parchment, and leather, to be used as journals, sketchbooks, recipe collections, albums, ship’s logs, account books, or any purpose one could name. His creations were renowned all over Lothal for their craftsmanship and beauty, and he exhibited them at galleries and art fairs throughout the planet’s eponymous sector.  
  
Saadya Bridger was his name. He was a sallow, timid, serious-faced man with eyeglasses and a head of raven-black curls. He rarely went out. From before dawn till after dusk he could be found in his workshop, at his drafting table, carefully and lovingly stitching gatherings together, or ruling lines on deckled, flecked, or woven pages, or embossing the covers with his homeworld’s elaborate traditional designs. For hours he would busy himself with these minute, painstaking details, not stopping till all was complete, till all was perfect. Then, and only then, he would sign his name in Atiq-Lothali on the bottom of the back inside cover in dark brown-orange, hand-mixed vegetable ink: _Saadya ebn Todros Gesheri._  
  
And then, worn from his labors, he would collapse forward onto his drafting table, remaining there motionless and close-eyed for several minutes before remembering he had to get home to his wife and children.  


* * *

  
_Garel, 4 BBY_  
  
Well, maybe “heard” wasn’t quite the right word. It was more that he thought it, _felt_ it, _understood_ it. It was just a greeting to start with, a simple _*Well, hello.*_  
  
Ezra’s first thought, naturally, was that it was a tooka or pittin or something; either that or a vrelt (they loved to chew on flimsi, after all). But he could see no such creature around. Perhaps it was hiding somewhere? There were so many places to hide in these old lower-north-side shops...  
  
He got up and began to walk through the shop. And again there it was—closer this time—saying something that amounted to _*You seem familiar. Like me, sort of.*_  
  
_Okay, definitely not a tooka or pittin,_ Ezra thought to himself as he walked on. _*And what do you mean,_ like you? _*_  
  
He felt a smile—though not his own—blossom inside his consciousness as whoever it was spoke again. _*Well, like family, one might say…*_  
  
Like family—Ezra stopped short at that word. _*Like family, how?*_  
  
Another unseen smile. _*It’ll be clearer once you come closer.*_  


* * *

  
_Lothal, 3989 BBY_  
  
Saadya Bridger’s workshop was situated on a picturesque street in Capital City’s commercial-arts district, just down a few streets from the house he shared with his wife Ruhamma and three children. He was always extremely tired after his workdays. After finishing for the day he would come home, dine with his family, and play a bit with his younger children. Then he would retire in exhaustion to bed, sleeping the sleep of the dead till the sun rose, when he would head once again to his shop.  
  
His family never could understand why he was so exhausted at the end of each day, and neither could he. All he was doing was crafting and binding books, he told himself again and again—not lifting heavy crates or repairing speeders. Sure, it was precision work that required concentration, just like all fine craftsmanship—but certainly not so much that a day’s work left him so completely drained of energy. He asked the other book artists he knew—and he knew several throughout the sector—if they had experienced similar exhaustion; none had. He had his healers and medics examine him; they said all was normal. He took to drinking caf, black, tarry, and concentrated; it did nothing. Each evening he trudged home from his shop more weary than the next.  
  
Little Levi, his youngest, always seemed particularly worried about him. When Saadya came home, Levi was the first to run up and hug him. When his father retired for the night, Levi would kiss him goodnight, staying by his bedside till Ruhamma came and shepherded him into the room he shared with his older brother, Yuval. In the morning Levi too was up at dawn, bringing his daddy a glass of water and asking how he had slept. The little fellow’s ministrations always brought the shadow of a smile to Saadya’s serious face. _Dear thing, always trying to take care of me—not that he can do anything, of course..._  
  
One night, the night before the opening of the All-Sector Arts Festival in the city center, Saadya had turned in earlier than usual. He would be exhibiting his wares and wanted to make sure to conserve his energy. As usual, Levi had kissed his daddy goodnight, and Ruhamma had coaxed him out. As Saadya drifted off, he thought he heard his little boy’s voice from the next room.  
  
“Mommy, is there less of Daddy tonight?”  
  
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”  
  
“I mean… like… not as much of him. Like there’s a bit missing or something.”  
  
“Oh, I think he’s just really tired. He works hard and it tires him out.”  
  
“Yeah, but you get tired out after taking care of Yuval and Aleeza and me each day, and there’s always the same amount of you.”  
  
Ruhamma laughed a little and said something Saadya couldn’t catch, because his mind had already been overtaken by dreams of signatures, gatherings, and marbled flyleaves.  


* * *

  
_Garel, 4 BBY_  
  
_Okay, enough of this already,_ thought Ezra as he made his way through the crammed, musty shop, glancing up, down, and all around, occasionally tripping over fallen books or rumpled rugs, and colliding with unexpected dead ends in the labyrinth of shelves. This was getting to be too much like a child’s game of “hot and cold.” Sometimes the voice in his head would grow louder and closer, sometimes softer and more distant, and all the while it kept going on about _how many years it has been_ and _I think I know you somehow_ and _you might be the one I’ve been looking for._ Honestly, whoever this was was as annoying as Kanan with all this cryptic talk. What even was the use of following a voice in one’s head around a used book store, anyway? _Things Jedi do that would be weird if other beings did them..._  
  
And it was all because of one word the voice had used: the most wonderful and beautiful word of all. Family—whatever that might mean.  
  
_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

_Lothal, 3989 BBY_  
  
The All-Sector Arts Festival was in full swing. Capital City’s main streets were lined with colorful booths where artists and craftsbeings displayed their creations—from vivid paintings to intricate sculptures, from finely limned pottery to lushly appointed textiles, and everything in between. Saadya had set up his own booth in its usual location at the south end of Chapel Street, with a variety of his handmade blank books, journals, and albums set out for visitors to admire. As usual, his older son Yuval had come along to help out with setup, sales, and takedown, but little Levi had insisted on coming along too—“to make sure none of Daddy gets lost,” as he said. Saadya smiled at this— _dear little fellow, always so worried about me when he doesn’t have to be_ —but allowed his younger boy to come along. After all, he was old enough now that he could do at least a few things to help out.  
  
It was now early afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when the lunchtime crowds had died down and traffic at the fair was slow. Saadya had let Yuval take the afternoon off to go to a holoflick with some of his friends, and he had sent Levi to the refreshment tent to pick up some lunch for the two of them. He was alone at the booth, carefully folding sheets of egg-blue satynweave flimsi for his next project, when he looked up to notice a man standing at his booth. The newcomer was tall and dark-bearded, wearing long brown robes, and he was in the process of paging intently through several of Saadya’s mid-size, marbled composition books, some of which he stacked into a pile.  
  
“A good day,” he said as his gaze met Saadya’s.  
  
In meek tones Saadya gave the response traditional on Lothal at that period: “A day of light.”  
  
The visitor extended his hand. “Master Rahman Jagoda, vice headmaster and sentient-ethics instructor at the Jedi Temple. A pleasure.”  
  
“Saadya Bridger,” came the reply. “How do you do, Master Jagoda.”  
  
“Good, good, thank you.” The Jedi held up one of the composition books and riffled through it gently. “You have some truly beautiful work here, Mr. Bridger.”  
  
“Thank you, Master. You’re very kind.”  
  
“This hand-marbled flimsi is absolutely exquisite. And these floral details on this binding—the work of a true master. And oh my stars, now, what is _this_ —”  
  
Just then the Jedi held the book up next to the side of his head as if he were listening to it, keeping there for several intent moments before doing the same on the other side of his head. He then put the book down, picked up another and repeated the process—and then again with a third. “Oh now, _this_ is something truly remarkable, Mr. Bridger,” he said at last. “Truly remarkable indeed. I haven’t come across _this_ in years.”  
  
Bafflement shadowed Saadya’s features. “I—I’m sorry, Master Jagoda, I’m not sure what you mean.”  
  
“Ah, well, Mr. Bridger.” Master Jagoda leaned closer to the artist and lowered his voice. “It would seem you are what Jedi lore has historically termed a mage-artisan.”  
  
“Am I?” was all Saadya could say, his forehead wrinkling.  
  
“Yes. Do not be alarmed. All it means is that whenever you create something in your craft—in your case, one of your exquisite journals”—he held one up—“a Force connection forms between you and it, enough so that some of your own life force seeps through that connection and into—ah ha! Well, hello!”  
  
Levi had just returned from the refreshment tent with a flimsiplast bag in his hand, from which the warm fragrances of tarama dip and lefflaff emanated. Master Jagoda put the journal down and examined the boy intently, peering into his midnight-blue eyes.  
  
“My youngest son, Levi,” Saadya said, almost with a sigh.  
  
“How do you do, Levi. I’m Master Jagoda.”  
  
“Pleased to meet you,” came the response.  
  
Jagoda turned to Saadya again. “Do you know, Mr. Bridger, I have the distinct sense that this boy of yours may be Force-sensitive.”  
  
“Yes, we’ve suspected that for some time now.”  
  
“Very Force-sensitive.”  
  
“Yes, we’ve suspected that too.”  
  
“May I have your permission to ask him a few things?” Jagoda queried. Saadya shrugged and nodded—what else could he do?—and the Jedi took a deck of sabacc cards from his pocket, four of which he laid face-down on the table. “Now, Levi, my boy, please tell me what these cards are.”  
  
“They’re sabacc cards, _of course!_ ” rejoined the youngster, throwing up his hands matter-of-factly.  
  
Jagoda laughed. “No, no, I mean tell me _which_ sabacc cards they are. Without turning them over, of course.”  
  
“It’s all right, Levi,” Saadya added as his son glanced over at him shyly. “It’s just like that game Aleeza plays with you sometimes.”  
  
“Okay.” Levi handed the bag of food to his father, then squeezed his eyes closed for a few a moments. “Er… let’s see… um… Six of Sabers… Idiot…”  
  
“Levi!”  
  
“No, Daddy, the _card!_ Er… okay... then Commander of… Flasks… and then… er… Ace of Sabers?”  
  
One by one Jagoda turned the cards over. They were, indeed, the Six of Sabers, the Idiot, the Commander of Flasks, and the Ace of Sabers.   
  
“Ah ha. Very good, my boy.” The Jedi turned to Saadya and nodded. “Very impressive indeed, at his age. Now, one more thing, if I may…”  
  
He picked up the journal he has been looking at when he had first stoop at the booth, the one with the egg-blue pages and floral-detailed binding, and held it close to the side of Levi’s head. “Feel anything?”  
  
Again Levi squinched his eyes closed. Moments later they sprang open as he gasped with wonder, glanced at his father, then at Jagoda, then at his father, then back at Jagoda. “Aw, that’s _wizard!_ I guess _that’s_ where he’s gone all those times!”  
  
“Mmm, I thought you might notice,” the Jedi chuckled before turning back to Saadya. “Well, Mr. Bridger, it’s all settled. I shall be back in a week with some of my colleagues to run some further evaluation. In the meantime”—he gestured to the pile of journals he had amassed—“I’ll take these. They will be just the thing for my meditative composition class.”  
  
“Thank you, Master Jagoda,” Saadya said quietly as he took the Jedi’s payment. It was a respectable sum, much more than he had expected to make on a quiet Zhellday afternoon—but Saadya somehow felt he had sold much more than just his artworks. After making sure Jagoda was far enough away down the street, he clasped Levi in a fervent hug.  
  
“Love you, Blue-Eyes.”  
  
“Uh, love you too, Daddy… c’we eat our lunch now?”  
  
“Good idea.”   
  
Without further hesitation father and son tucked into their lefflaff and tarama dip. And that evening, after the day’s credits had been counted, the booth secured, the inventory loaded into the speeder, Saadya felt even more tired than usual.  


* * *

  
_Garel, 4 BBY_  
  
Ezra followed the voice inside his head into a particularly musty, messy, and crammed back corner of the shop. Piles of books, magazines, and files lay about unsorted on both shelves and floor, and dust and cobwebs covered everything, but there were no beings around. (Except for a grizzled, half-dead spider inside one of the cobwebs—and Ezra knew that whatever it was he was _hearing_ or _perceiving_ or _thinking_ didn’t sound like one of _them._ )  
  
_*Ah, there you are.*_ The voice made itself so clear, so loud inside his consciousness that Ezra jumped, nearly knocking over a precariously balanced stack of _Garel City Review of Holobooks_ back issues. _*This is much better. I can get a much closer read on you now.*_  
  
_*Uh, good to know?*_ replied Ezra with a shrug. _*Because, if you don’t mind my saying so, I still have no idea who, what, or where you are...*_  
  
_*I’m over on the little broken shelf in the corner, the one with all the technical journals and_ Which Being Is Which _volumes. There you go*_ —as Ezra moved closer to the shelf he thought was meant—* _You’re almost there—_ *  
  
* _So you say you can get a read on me,_ * Ezra transmitted as he began rummaging among the dust-coated tomes. * _Who or what do_ you _think_ I _am?_ *  
  
* _Oh, well, I have a guess… it’s just a guess at present… there! Here I am! You’ve found me!_ *  
  
And, indeed, Ezra was now holding up a small handmade sketchbook with an elaborately patterned cover that he had just pulled out from under last year’s edition of _Which Being Is Which._  
  
_to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

_Lothal, 3989 BBY_  
  
And so it was all settled.  
  
Master Rahman Jagoda returned a week later, as he had promised, bringing two of his fellow Masters from the temple along with him. Tests were run; midichlorians were sampled; many questions were asked, of Levi and of his family members; blocks and toys were floated across the room; sabacc cards were laid out and guessed, and laid out and guessed again. In light of the findings (“most exceptional, most exceptional indeed,” Jagoda had remarked), it was decided that Levi should begin an initiateship at the Jedi temple without delay. (“It is not wise to wait too long in these matters,” Jagoda had also remarked.)  
  
Levi, of course, considered the whole thing “wizard.” He couldn’t wait to pack his bags and head to the temple to learn all those cool Jedi things like lifting things with just his mind, reading people’s thoughts, and fighting with laser swords. But Saadya felt a bittersweet mix of pride and sadness. It was inevitable, he supposed, given Levi’s talents—talents Saadya had known, before ever having met Master Jagoda, that his son would someday need to cultivate. Yet he would miss his little Blue-Eyes, that was certain—and for all the boy’s eager excitement, he was sure Levi would grow to miss his family, too. He was, after all, only five.  
  
Besides, the whole mage-artisan business was on Saadya’s mind as well: the matter of Force bonds forming between the maker and the thing made, of life force seeping into the thing made. He supposed there could be something to it, even beyond the usual compliments he and other artist-types so often got for “putting themselves into their work”; it would certainly explain why he was so tired some evenings. He remembered how Jagoda had held the journal up to his head and then to Levi’s, then Levi’s remark about “where he’s gone all those times.” _Guess you really were right about there being less of me, kiddo,_ he chuckled to himself...  
  
And then he had an idea.  
  
It was the day Jagoda was scheduled to collect Levi and bring him to the temple, and Saadya was at his workshop as usual. That evening, just before packing up to go home, he made a detour into the small back storeroom where he kept his extra stock. He spent several moments sorting carefully through the wares on the shelves till he came across a child’s sketchbook with a pattern of frolicking Loth-cats worked into its sunfruit-orange leather cover—orange had always been Levi’s favorite color.  
  
Saadya brought it home with him, and that evening, as he and Levi and the others sat in the conversation circle waiting for the Jedi to arrive, he gave it to him.  
  
“This is for you, Levi.” Saadya held the sketchbook up to his son’s head, close to his ear. The boy’s midnight-blue eyes lit up.  
  
“Aw, cool, Daddy!... what’s it for?”  
  
“Well, you can draw pictures in it, and practice your letters in it, things like that,” his father replied. “I’ll miss you when you’re at the temple, but this way there’ll be”—he choked up a little as he spoke—“there’ll be a little bit of me right there with you.”  
  
“Thanks, Daddy. This way I won’t hafta miss you, too.”  
  
Saadya smiled and hugged him. “Love you, Blue-Eyes.”  
  
“Love you too, Daddy.”  
  
They stayed in that hug till the doorchime rang and the door opened to admit Master Jagoda. Goodbyes were said, tears were shed, and the Jedi led young Levi off into the night.  


* * *

  
_Garel, 4 BBY_  
  
Ezra picked up the small sketchbook and looked at it. It was kind of cute, really, with the Loth-cat design on its cover, though all it contained were a few children’s drawings and scribblings: a stick figure holding a swordlike object, a group of stick figures all holding swordlike objects, a pointy-eared animal that might have been a Loth-cat, a page of shaky Aurebesh letters (some backward or upside-down or both), and a page with a single sentence written in the same oversized, shaky letters: THER IZ ONLI PEAS. His face was squinched up in incredulity as he thought, * _Wait, so… this is you?_ *  
  
* _Why, yes._ * The voice resounded in Ezra’s consciousness more clearly than ever before, and there was a chuckle in it.  
  
_Great, just great,_ thought Ezra to himself. _The others looked at me funny when I started talking to animals. What’ll they say now that I’ve started talking to dusty old books?_ He began to flip further through the sketchbook but found nothing but blank pages the rest of the way, and slumped down in frustration on a nearby kick stool. * _Okay, I don’t get it. So apparently you’re a sketchbook with Loth-cats on the cover and some random kid’s drawings. I mean, that’s great and all, but why exactly should I care?_ *  
  
* _Well, that’s the thing._ * Again that chuckle; it made Ezra want to kick something. * _You may care, or you may not; I have no way of knowing just yet. But flip all the way to the end and take a look at the back cover. Then maybe at least_ you’ll _know._ *  
  
* _Fine, if you say so…_ * And Ezra did, despite himself. At the very bottom of the cover’s light peach-colored flimsiboard lining was writing—handwriting in orange-brown vegetable ink, in what he recognized as a very old-fashioned Lothali style. It read:  
  
_Saadya ebn Todros Gesheri_  
  
“Gesheri…” Ezra spoke the name out loud even as he racked his brains to remember where he’d seen it before. Or heard it. Or maybe both, sometime a very long time ago…  
  
_*Ah, you’re thinking very hard, I can tell… you’ve seen that name before, have you?*_  
  
_*I think so…*_ An image formed in Ezra’s mind, an image of the days long ago when he had a family, his own family… of sitting on his father’s lap reading from a large book full of names written in that same old-fashioned writing, in that same orange-brown ink. _And look, there’s you: Ezra ebn Ephraim Gesheri._ And he, Ezra, had squinched up his face and said, _Gesheri? Wha? That’s not right! That’s not me—_  
  
“That’s—THAT’S ME!”  
  
* _Ah, I knew it, I knew it! You’re one of his descendants, aren’t you? One of Levi’s descendants? Oh, you_ must _be! I know it!*_  
  
_Levi? Descendants? Who? What?_ Ezra thought about that book with the names again, and how maybe there had been a Levi or two in there—maybe. But before he could answer, he heard the door of the bookstore’s back office open, followed by the shuffle of footsteps and the sound of a familiar Jedi voice:  
  
“Ezra! That you?”  


* * *

  
_Lothal, 3989 BBY_  
  
A week after Levi left for the temple, Saadya sat in his workshop as usual and saw the first of the images. It was a stick figure, like a child’s drawing, that formed in lines of light within his mind’s eye; it held something long and thin in its hand and smiled a broad smile. And with it Saadya heard (or _thought,_ or _felt,_ or _understood_ ) a voice:  
  
* _Hey Daddy! This is me and my new training saber! I just got it today! Isn’t it wizard_?*  
  
Saadya beamed. It was Levi! His plan had worked. Now could he respond to him? It was, perhaps, worth trying…  
  
* _Wow, that’s great, Blue-Eyes! I’m so proud of you!_ *  
  
* _Thanks, Daddy!_ * came the reply—and then there was silence for the rest of the day. But Saadya went about his trimming and sewing and binding joyfully, for now his little Levi was not totally gone.  
  
Another image came three days later—a group of smiling stick figures with training sabers (* _Look, Daddy, these are all my friends in Wolf Clan!_ *), followed in two days by an indeterminate stick animal with tall, pointed ears, also smiling (* _That’s Bel’vidiir, he belongs to the gardener, but he lets us play with him sometimes*_ ). There were days when, instead of drawings, he saw Aurebesh letters slowly and laboriously forming in his mind, sometimes backwards, sometimes upside down, but always followed by a burst of joy: * _Look, Daddy! Master Mynchyn says I’m getting better!_ * One day the lines of light even formed themselves slowly into a rudimentary sentence—THER IZ ONLI PEAS—and it was all Saadya could do to keep his tears of joy and pride from falling on the flimsi sheets he had just finished marbling. _My Blue-Eyes! My baby boy! I haven’t lost you after all! There certainly is something to be said for being a mage-artisan!_  
  
Then one day, the images and voices ceased, and the letter came. It read as follows:  
  
_Dear Mr. Bridger:_  
  
_I hope this finds you well. It has come to my attention that your son, Initiate Levi Ephraim Bridger, has been in contact with you via a mage-artisan Force channel in a sketchbook that he confirms having received as a parting gift from you. As this is contrary to the Temple’s strict nonattachment policy, in keeping with established Jedi doctrine, we have confiscated Initiate Bridger’s sketchbook. Likewise, as a precautionary measure, we have confiscated all the journals that previously had been purchased from your workshop for the meditative composition class. We respectfully but ardently request that you make no further attempts to contact Initiate Bridger for the duration of his tutelage at the Temple._  
  
_Very sincerely yours,  
RAHMAN JAGODA  
(Rahman ebn Marduk Yaghuda)  
Vice Headmaster  
Senior Instructor, Sentient Ethics_  
  
_to be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

_Lothal, 3989–88 BBY_  
  
After the letter, the images stopped, and Saadya heard (or _thought,_ or _felt_ ) no more from Levi.  
  
The days stretched into weeks. Saadya still spent his days hunched over his workbench, tooling and stitching and trimming and limning the weary hours away. Each day he held out hope that the bright line-drawings would once again form in his consciousness, or that the cheerful little inner voice would surprise him with happy news of skills learned or friends made. But there was still nothing, even as the weeks stretched into months.  
  
Well, in a way there was not nothing. He still had his bookmaking craft, and his curious talent of _putting himself into it._ Perhaps he could use that somehow, he thought—either to find Levi again or at least to take his mind off his grief. And so he threw himself into his craft like never before: working longer hours than ever, padding into the workshop well before dawn, latching up the shutters well after dark. The exquisitely tooled journals and sketchbooks piled up on his workbench and shelves; he boxed them up and shipped some to fine stationer’s shops, some to art galleries, and others to art fairs, all throughout the sector and all throughout the Outer Rim. People took notice, even beyond the Outer Rim: he and his wares were written up in the _Mid-Rim Arts Review,_ the _Garel Citizen,_ and the _Coruscant Weekly._ His clientele came to include CorSec officers, Naboo magistrates, and a Kiffar sheyf.  
  
And through it all, as the months stretched into a year, Saadya toiled away over his gatherings and signatures and fore-edges, arriving home so eyestrained he could barely see and so exhausted he could barely stand. Yes, he knew there was _less of him_ each day. But there was less of him anyway, now that his baby boy, his Blue-Eyes, was gone. _At least this way,_ he thought, _there’s still a chance…_  
  
But there was still nothing.  
  
One night toward the end of summer, Ruhamma sat awake with a candle in her window. She was worried; Saadya had not yet returned, even though it was by now quite dark. After checking quickly on Yuval and Aleeza—they were fast asleep and would be fine on their own for a bit—she left the house and made her way through Capital City’s winding streets to her husband’s workshop.  
  
She knocked on the door; there was no answer. She opened it and entered; he never kept his shop locked anyway.  
  
Her husband sat motionless at his drafting table. His head had fallen forward onto the marbled pages he had been working on; he looked as if he had just closed his eyes for a brief rest, as she knew he was wont to do during a long day’s work. But when she checked, his hands were limp and pulseless, and no breath came from him.  
  
She collapsed onto his shoulder in wild, hot tears, unable to _hear_ or _feel_ or _think_ or _understand_ the voice that filtered up from those marbled pages:  
  
_*Don’t cry, dearest! I’m still here! Really, I am…*_  


* * *

  
_Garel, 4 BBY_  
  
“Uh, hi, everyone…”  
  
Ezra turned to see Kanan, Hera, and Chopper approaching him, followed closely by a stooped, bespectacled man with shaggy white hair and a red mark on his chin that was probably a Kiffar _qukuuf_ mark—the shopkeeper, Ezra guessed. Hera’s arms were crossed and her head slightly cocked. “Everything all right, Ezra? We thought we heard you say something.”  
  
“Er… yes! No! I mean…” Ezra glanced at the leatherbound sketchbook he still held, then at the others, then back at the sketchbook. “Everything’s fine. Just was… browsing a little, that’s all. There’s some really… cool stuff here. Yeah. Like this.” He held up the sketchbook.  
  
Kanan raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were such an aficionado of antiquarian books, Ezra.”  
  
Just as Ezra opened his mouth to make a retort, the little white-haired shopkeeper interposed. “Ah, now, your young friend is Lothali, as I recall? Then no wonder he was drawn to this curious little specimen.” He took the sketchbook gently from Ezra and brought it over to show the others, who eyed it quizzically. “Probably dates from just prior to the Jedi Civil War; the sumak-dyed Merkesh leather binding is characteristic of Lothali bookcraft at that period. And look at the beautiful tooling on the cover.” His wizened fingers traced the prancing Loth-cats. “Absolutely exquisite, isn’t it? The work of a true master.” He handed the book back to Ezra. “It’s yours, if you like, young man.”  
  
“Wait—wha…?” Ezra gaped.  
  
“Consider it a gift.”  
  
“But—uh—er—”   
  
“Well, it’s not like I can sell it, you know. Binding’s pretty and all, but inside is just a few scribbles and a lot of blank pages. Why shouldn’t it go to someone who appreciates it?”  
  
Ezra smiled. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Mun… I… I _do_ appreciate it.”  
  
“My pleasure, young fellow, my pleasure,” Mr. Mun nodded. “Enjoy it in good health. And if you ever should wish to expand your collection, I am at your disposal.” There was a playful glint in his eye as he wagged a knowing finger. “Old books have a pesky way of multiplying, you know.”  
  
“Thanks, Mr. Mun.” Again Ezra smiled at the bookseller, then over at Kanan and Hera, who were looking at each other quizzically and shrugging (“He gets it from you, you know,” Hera was saying), then back to the sketchbook in his hand. He thought he could almost feel a smile of gratitude coming from it, too:  
  
_*Yes, thank you most kindly, Mr. Mun. I appreciate it, too—more than I can say.*_  


* * *

  
Later, as the _Ghost_ whirled through hyperspace to its next rendezvous point, Ezra sat at the small fold-out table in his cabin, looking over the words he had just written on a blank page of the sketchbook. For someone who had had no formal education since the age of seven, it had been no easy task, and he felt mighty proud of himself:  
  
_Ther is no emoshon ther is peas._  
_Ther is no igneranc ther is knollej._  
_Ther is no pashun ther is sirenty._  
_Ther is no kaos ther is harmny._  
_Ther is no deth ther is the Force._  
_Ezra ebn Ephraim Gesheri_  
  
_*Looking good,*_ came the now-familiar voice. _*Looking very good.*_  
  
Ezra smiled. _*Thanks.*_  
  
_*I’m sure this Master Jarrus is very proud of you.*_  
  
_*Oh, yeah, of course! Totally! Well... mostly.*_  
  
_*I would welcome the chance to meet him sometime.*_  
  
“Oh, uh, heh heh!” A nervous laugh escaped Ezra despite himself. _*Er… you’ll get to. You’ll definitely get to.*_  
  
All was quiet for a moment, both in the room and in the Force. Ezra closed the sketchbook and looked admiringly at the tooled Loth-cats on the cover—so lifelike and detailed that they almost seemed about to jump off the sumak-dyed Merkesh leather binding and start frisking about the room. (Good thing they were just tooled, though, because he was pretty sure Zeb would not like that.)  
  
_*Say, you never did tell me…*_ he began at last. _*how did you get in there anyway? And who’s that Levi person you were talking about?*_  
  
Saadya’s unseen smile shone in the Force like Lothal’s double moonlight, as did his answer. _*Well, it’s a long story…*_  
  
**the end**


End file.
